


On a Frozen Pond

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-10
Updated: 2000-12-10
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser / Smithbauer, the hockey player.  What really happened between the scenes they showed us in 'The Blue Line'.





	On a Frozen Pond

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

On a Frozen Pond

## On a Frozen Pond

by Otsoko

* * *

title: On a Frozen Pond. (1/3)  
Author: otsoko (otsoko@hotmail.com)  
Rating: NC-17  
Classification: SLASH! Due South: Fraser / Smithbauer Spoilers: The Blue Line. The Hockey Player from Fraser's past. Distribution: list archives, otherwise, ask. Feedback: OK. This is my first try at DS. So, please, let me know. Disclaimer: Alliance and CTV own them. I'm just playing. promise. ACKs. the JENeral for some serious beta-ing, and pointing out at least one really embarassing error in the first draft. and Cerise, who rebeta-ed and made it even better.  
Neither of them are responsible for any remaining errors. Those would be mine. Notes:   
This is all JENeral's fault. She started asking this Canadian DS questions on a Buffy chat forum. And then she sent me DS tapes because I hadn't seen much. And then we drove all the Buffy fans nuts talking about RayK. And I just had to explain to myself *why* Fraser waited for RayK. Then I saw ep 'The Blue Line' last week on Canadian TV and suddenly everything made sense.` 

On a Frozen Pond 

A newly minted Mountie returning from three weeks training in the bush, Fraser was looking forward to two things: A hot shower and Hockey Night in Canada. God bless the CBC. 

Shower part taken care of, Fraser sat in the squad room along with every Mountie on the Post, except those actually on duty, as they all watched transfixed. The forward charged, nothing between him and the goal except the goalie. Break-away. A collective breath drawn. 

"Smithbauer shoots." 

"Smithbauer scores!" 

The squad room erupted into cheers. 

And Mark Smithbauer raised his stick in victory and skated in a circle, and the camera moved in for a close-up, and as Don Cherry rambled on about that's how that's hockey should be played, all Fraser could see is that smile. 

And that night as he lay in his cot, the image of that face, that smile, overwhelmed him. 

Fraser swallowed hard. Eyes open in the dark. Hands carefully at his side. Staring up at where stars should be, but weren't. 

* * *

Fraser pulled out the cards. One by one, remembering buying each one as it came out. Remembering the smile, the proud smile as he would look at each card in the store as the clerk made change. Wanting to tell the clerk that he knew this guy, that this guy had been ... someone important. 

Instead, he would take the change, not counting it as he stuffed it into his pocket, and say a heartfelt "Thank you kindly." 

"Come again, eh." 

Later, back in the barracks, the other recruits had photos of the home town honey, or occasionally photos cut from magazines. Fraser had his cards. Or rather, Fraser had *his* cards. 

Maybe you never forget your first. Your first ... whatever. Maybe nothing else would ever feel as right. Maybe nothing else could ever feel as right. 

He remembered. He stood there, watching, despite himself. As his best friend Mark broke away, deftly skating around the lone defenseman and shot the puck. And scored. And raised the stick in his teen-aged hand. 

Maybe nothing else would ever feel like that night, at the pond, after the other guys had left, just the two of them, one-on-one, charging hard, sticks flying. Then Mark checking him, sending him flying into the snowbank. And then pulling him up, and Ben suddenly slipping and Mark catching him, holding him up. Holding him. And Ben looking into his eyes, scared, confused, and the shock of recognition in the other's eyes. 

And later, lying there in the barn, the smell of the hay almost overwhelming the smell of Mark Smithbauer. Almost. And from the suddenly muted sounds coming from the barnyard, Ben knew that it was snowing again. 

* * *

His letters to Mark unanswered. Fraser following his career in the sports pages, Junior Hockey in Alberta, NHL draft. Quebec Nordiques, Edmonton Oilers. Chicago. 

Chicago. Fraser had come to Chicago on the trail of his father's killers, and had stayed ... well, because Ottawa had really given him no choice. But a part of him been pleased to stay in Chicago for a reason that is perfectly relevant to the present story. But never discussed. With anyone. Not even Diefenbaker. Not with Ray. Especially not Ray. Of all the things that Fraser could expect Ray to understand, this was the last of them. Ray had fairly straight-forward views, so to speak. 

And then. Outside a liquor store. In a Chicago neighbourhood that reminded Fraser oddly of Toronto. Because everything was reminding him of Canada as the deepest part of the Illinois winter descended, reminding Fraser of November in the Northwest Territories. November back home. 

Diefenbaker saw him first. And stared at him from the car window. Him. Mark. 

Chicago hockey's very own Canadian bad boy. Ray wouldn't understand. Didn't understand. Would never understand. But he stopped the car, and Fraser, silly grin on his face, went into the store. 

And the shock of recognition on Mark's face, and the blow to the face. 

And back in the apartment. Sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed. Face hurting badly, but not as badly as ... what, his heart? A low sympathetic growl, almost a bark. Fraser looks up just enough so that Dief can read his lips. 

"I don't think that's what's going on, Diefenbaker." 

Diefenbaker cocked his head. 

Fraser was indignant. "That isn't fair. He hasn't seen me in years. There's no reason he ought to have recognized me. I've changed since last he saw me." 

A low growl and Diefenbaker put his head down on his front paws. 

"Fair enough. Yes, I'll go see him again, if you insist. I'll call Ray." 

Diefenbaker turned his head slightly, eyes fixed on Fraser. 

Not without some exasperation, Fraser explained. "No, I can't imagine Ray being jealous. He knows I'm his partner." 

Diefenbaker let out a very low growl. 

"Yes. Of course you're my partner, too, Diefenbaker." 

The wolf raised his head warily. 

"How many partners? Well, Diefenbaker, humans often have several partners, who serve in different capacities." Some things just had to be explained to wolves over and over 

And of course Ray Vecchio said yes. And drove by to pick him up, and as they approached Mark Smithbauer's apartment building, Fraser, despite his silly grin, became anxious, nervous, desperate. Dief had to do all the thinking, all the planning, all the leading. Because Fraser couldn't. 

And then nothing. The pretense of not knowing Fraser. Not recognizing him. Insulting him. Offering a Mountie, a friend, money. Because ... 

That's how Mark worked now. On money. 

And nothing could have destroyed Fraser more completely. 

* * *

Lying in bed, reading. Searching for advice from the only source possible, his father's journals. Drawn to his father's musings on his own partnership with Frobisher. Hard for his father to write about that. Impossible for him to ever have spoken to Frobisher about it. And yet Fraser found himself drawn to those short passages spread throughout the years of journal entries. They were the ones that spoke to him, that made him jealous of what his father had. That sense of connection. That security of the partner's loyalty ... and affection. 

And reading between the lines, trying to read between the lines. Did his father have the same feelings, the same urges towards his partners that Fraser sometimes felt lying next to the fire and seeing his sleeping partner's face in the last flickers of the evenings fire? To touch him. Just touch him. Or maybe his father never felt that. Maybe that was his. And maybe seeing Dief watching the partner with that intense look. Knowing that he couldn't, wouldn't stare like that. It would give too much away. 

Because opening up, letting the guy know can be dangerous. Can hurt. And can still hurt years later. When you see him again. And he hits you with a bottle ... 

Because Mark never responded to the letters, the postcards. Nor to the note of congratulations sent to the club house when Mark started playing junior hockey in Alberta. Or to the one when he was drafted by the NHL. 

And fine, NHL hockey player. 

And maybe the idea of Smithbauer was bigger than the man. Bigger than any man. 

And Diefenbaker was looking at him, scowling. 

Fraser was thouroughly annoyed with the wolf. "That's not fair, Diefenbaker. He's given no indication that he is in the least interested. He pretended not to recognize me." 

Diefenbaker sat down, and stared up at Fraser. 

"Point taken. Yes, in order for him to pretend not to recognize me, he had to in fact have recognized me." 

A low growl, which only served to make Fraser sigh. 

"No, Diefenbaker. I've just never felt that way about anyone else." 

Diefenbaker let out a recriminating yelp. Fraser was incensed. 

"I can't believe you would mention that! He and I were together in the bush on a training assignment. It would have been entirely inappropriate for me to have felt anything like that." 

The wolf cocked his head, never taking his eyes off Fraser. 

"No, I don't think the way he looked at me meant anything. He was simply a very lonely young man." 

Fraser could have sworn that he heard a mocking undertone in the bark that his explanation elicited. 

"Very well, Steve was a reasonably fit lonely young man." 

Diefenbaker stood back up and gave Fraser an accusatory yelp. 

"I certainly did not! One simply has dreams like that from time to time. It is nature's way of ... cleansing the system." 

The wolf sighed and lay back down, his low growl saying all there was left to be said. 

"Very well, yes. He did bear a certain resemblance to Mark. But that is neither here nor there, Diefenbaker." 

And Fraser went back to reading the journals, pointedly ignoring Diefenbaker's scowl. 

And then. A knock. The door opening. The footfalls of a man, close to 90 kilos, who slightly favoured one leg. 

"Hello, Ben." 

And Fraser was unable to speak. Just able to look. And for the first time, Fraser was unable even to make the customary polite response to a guest entering one's place of residence. 

"You live like this?" 

And Fraser still couldn't speak. All he could do is look at Mark. 

"Someone's after me." 

And Fraser found himself unable to move, unable to answer, unable to think. And all he knew was that he was looking at the only man he had really wanted since he was a teenager. And so Mark wasn't the man Fraser had made him into. And maybe Fraser had always known that, but seeing that, seeing him was more than he can bear. 

Fraser suddenly regretted going into that liquor store and then going to his apartment and seeing him again and seeing what he had become and feeling the pain of the bottle to the chin, and the deeper pain of the manner in which Mark had treated him, like a lackey, like someone he'd never met, like a nobody. Because maybe Fraser had been nobody in Mark's life. 

Fraser knew suddenly he would never be able to look at those cards again and feel that same flush of happiness. That Mark had taken even that away from him. Taken the last of his illusions. And with that the hope that he had always nurtured about there being someone out there for him. 

"I really can't help you." 

"Looks like I'm not the only one who's changed, eh." 

And the look on Mark's face twisted Fraser's guts like nothing since facing his father's killers. He had thought he could shut Mark out. He couldn't. He just couldn't. " ... unless you tell me the truth." 

"I don't know what's going on here, I really don't know." 

Fraser looked at him. Just for a minute he let himself go. He let the thoughts, if not the actual words, run through his head: 

'Then stay here. Be here. Be next to me. Be near me. Look at me. Remember me. Remember that night beside the frozen pond. Remember how you made me feel. Remember what I told you. What I've never told anyone else since. Because I've never felt that way about anyone since. About anyone else. Because everyone I've met and seen and thought about, I've always compared. And there was no comparison. It was you, Mark. It was always you. It is you. 

'And I know it didn't mean to you what it meant to me. That my declaration went unanswered. I did and you didn't. But you held me, and let me touch you, and let me come and helped me come, holding me next to you, holding me tight against the winter chill in the barn. And I buried my head against your neck as I hugged you tightly and you touched me, gently caressing me, until I was bucking against you, covering your leg with me. And then gently caressing my head, your eyes begging me and me more than willing, eager, anxious to do whatever, anything, and thank God you told me what to do, how to do it, and how you liked it.' 

And Fraser knew he couldn't say it, any of it. If only because the man was a suspect. If only because ... 

Neither could he turn Mark away. 

"I think you should stay here tonight." 

"Here?" 

And Fraser was on the floor as Mark lay on his bed, bare-chested, shirtless, skin exposed, taunting, teasing. Fraser was sure that Mark's had to know, he had to remember... 

And at that moment, Fraser knew. Knew in his heart what Mark had done. Knew he'd betrayed the game. Betrayed Hockey. Betrayed Canada. Disgraced the uniform. And fine, not the Serge, but the second most important uniform for a Canadian: a hockey uniform. 

Mark looked at Dief. "Can you make him stop staring at me? 

"No. I'm afraid that's impossible." 

And all Fraser could do was lie on the floor and put his head down, and not look at Mark again. Even as he could feel Diefenbaker's eyes still staring at the man. 

* * *

Fraser walked out of the arena with Mark, joking, even knowing what he'd done and just for the moment not caring about that, and being next to him, just being next to him, and knocking chunks of ice with the stick back and forth, and just enjoying being there and being with him and feeling the cold in the air, and the ice beneath them, and the banter and yeah it's only twenty below and that's nothing and that would be a warm night back home this time of year. And watching him move and smiling and just watching him. 

And watching him so intently that Fraser didn't see the car until it was almost too late. They were coming for him, coming for Mark, because he couldn't betray the game when it came to the final nine seconds. And there was only one chance of saving Mark. Fraser pulled on Mark's jersey and cap. He had to get them to come after him instead of Mark. Lace up the skates, and go. Draw their fire and give Mark a chance to get away. Because he had to give Mark a chance to escape. 

And skating with him down frozen alleys, wearing *his* jersey, because even now, knowing what he's done, Fraser would rather die that see him hurt. And maybe if he got shot now ... No, not that. 

Fraser didn't want that. But if he were going to take a bullet, let it be for Mark. So he skated hard. 

Fraser just wanted to skate. Over the frozen back streets of Chicago. Keep skating. Skate north. Skate over the frozen lake, up past the Sault, across Superior, jumping the shipping channel cut by the icebreakers, skate north, skate home. He just wanted to keep skating until his legs could take no more, until his heart gave out. 

And there was Ray Vecchio. Stopping him, catching him. Saving him from ... himself. 

And Ray knew ... something. Thought it was the game. Thought it was a Canadian thing. Thought it was loyalty to a childhood friend that had made Fraser refuse to believe what was obviously true about Mark Smithbauer. What had to be true. Sweet street-wise innocent Ray. Naive Ray Vecchio. Ray who would never understand. 

And Fraser couldn't look Ray in the eyes, and Ray didn't ask him to. God bless you, detective Vecchio. 

* * *

"Evening Diefenbaker." 

But Diefenbaker was staring again. Not at Fraser. At Mark. Sitting dejected, defeated, all in. 

And it came pouring out. All of it. How he'd agreed to throw the game, then backing out of the deal in the final nine seconds and scoring the winner, unassisted. Enough to mark him for death. You don't back out of a deal with some people. 

"You gonna turn me in?" 

Fraser felt like Mark had struck him again. It was his duty to turn him in. Mark had just confessed ... to a fairly serious crime. His duty should be clear. But it suddenly wasn't clear to Fraser. Because Mark *had* done the right thing in the end, in the last nine seconds of the game. And yes, Fraser had been tempted once before to not turn someone in. But he had done his duty then and brought her in after that night in the snowstorm. And a part of him had regretted it ever since. And he couldn't do it again. He couldn't do it to Mark. 

Think of an excuse, any excuse. What would Ray say? Be Ray for just one minute, give a Ray Vecchio excuse for not maintaining the right. 

"Well, unless Broda testifies against himself then there's no evidence of a conspiracy, so ... No." 

And Mark looked at Fraser and knew. Knew that Fraser had been working at coming up with an excuse. And neither Mark nor Fraser believed the reason that Fraser gave for not turning him in. And Fraser feared the reason that Mark had told him this. Because he could have just walked away. Could have quit because of his knee and gone back home, gone back to Canada and done the usual post-NHL career. Product endorsements, special guest at the hockey camps, coach junior, and maybe eventually the NHL. Or just opened up a car dealership and starred in cheap local commercials and done the play-by-play for the local radio station. He could have moved to a small prairie town and have been the local hero, with his photos covering one wall of the local tavern. 

Fraser looked out the window onto the Chicago street. As far away from that barn beside the frozen pond in the Northwest Territories as it was possible to be. But Diefenbaker was still staring at Mark. 

And Mark couldn't meet the wolf's eyes. 

So Mark stood up and walked out without a word. And Fraser didn't have to ask where he was going. And Fraser sat down. And felt the wolf staring at him. 

"No, Diefenbaker. I can't." 

But he did. And if Ray didn't understand, he still went with him, just because Fraser asked. And waited outside the locker room while Fraser talked to Mark. And there was nothing to say and everything to say. And Fraser knew why Mark turned himself in even though it was the end of everything and it really didn't matter because with that knee he never would have played another game, and Mark looked at him. Wanting Fraser to still respect him somehow. Still ... love him somehow. 

And Fraser handed him the cards. The same ones he had bought one by one as they came out. His cards. 

"They still make me feel proud." And Mark looked at him and knew exactly what Fraser meant. What he really meant. And Mark nodded, because he understood. 

"What are you going to do now?" 

"Dunno." 

* * *

Fraser walked back into the apartment, alone. 

"Evening, Diefenbaker." 

Diefenbaker looked up at him, accusingly. 

"It didn't seem appropriate, Diefenbaker." Fraser's annoyence came through. 

Diefenbaker snorted. 

"Yes, I know." 

The wolf cocked his head. 

"I doubt that, Diefenbaker. He could have said something, and he didn't." 

He put his head down on his front paws and let out a frustrated growl. 

Fraser sighed, sadly. "I doubt very much that he would be waiting for me, Diefenbaker." 

Diefenbaker simply looked up at him. 

Fraser looked back at the wolf, and replied exasteratedly, "Well, if he were, yes, it would be at a rink." 

Dief kept staring at him, eyes unblinking. 

"Do you have any idea how many rinks there are in downtown Chicago, Diefenbaker?" 

The wolf let out a low, almost mocking, snarl. 

"True, Ray would know. Very well, Diefenbaker. Anything to shut you up." 

Fraser picked up the phone. 

And Ray drove him around Chicago to every outdoor rink in the city. Without asking why. God bless you, Detective Vecchio. And there he was. Playing hockey like it should be played. On a frozen pond with some kid from the neighbourhood. And more than anything else, Fraser wanted to be there too. With him. He wanted to lace up the skates. 

* * *

And there it was, as Mark drove around him, deftly blocking Fraser's stick as he deked him out, skating around him effortlessly towards the untended goal. 

'Smithbauer shoots.' 

'Smithbauer scores!' 

Ben stood there watching, staring, grinning, despite himself. 

Mark raised his stick and skated in a circle, the happiest grin Fraser had ever seen on a man... well almost. 

And next play, when Mark checked him hard, and sent Fraser flying backwards, ass first into the snowbank, and managed to more or less fall atop him, Mark saw that same smile on Fraser's face. 

As he pushed himself up, after staying atop Fraser just a moment longer than was really necessary, he looked down at Fraser, who couldn't quite move yet. 

"Where's a barn when ya need one, eh?" 

Fraser couldn't answer. Except to hold out his arm, to let Mark pull him back to his feet. 

* * *

Fraser lay there, head on Mark's chest. feeling his heart slowly return to normal. Feeling Mark's hand slowly gently caress his back, Fraser letting his hand feel the muscle segueing into each rib. 

"You've done this before, often, haven't you, Mark?" 

"Yeah. You haven't, eh?" 

"Just with one ..." 

A silence while that sunk in. 

Whispered incredulity. "Ben! You don't mean ... ?" 

Fraser raised his head, their eyes met. Mark swallowed hard. He ran his fingers through Fraser's hair. "Jesus, Ben. You mean, I'm the only guy you've ...?" 

Fraser nodded slightly. 

Mark stared at him for a second then leaned up his head and kissed him. Fraser caressed his bicep as he let Mark roll him onto his back, and Mark kissed him more gently than he'd kissed a guy since... since a certain barn in the Inuvit a thousand years ago, a thousand guys ago. 

"Ben?" 

"Yes, Mark?" 

"Ever wanted to fuck a NHL all-star?" 

A silence. 

A whisper. "Well, one all-star, yes." 

"Cause there's this Mountie who I'd really like to fuck me." 

"Anyone I know?" 

"If you want me to beg, I will." Mark was grinning, joking, hand on Fraser's chest, feeling the warmth, the need. 

"That won't be necessary." 

"Damn." 

Fraser had to chuckle. "Where's a snowbank when you need one?" 

Mark rolled them both over, Fraser atop him. He looked up into Fraser's eyes. He reached up and caressed his cheek, running two fingers along his jaw line. "So you've never done this before?" 

No response, which was a response. 

Mark nodded, reached over and grabbed his bag, unzipped it and pulled out a condom and a plastic bottle. 

"*You've* done this before, I see." 

A grin. Mark opened the foil packet with his teeth, reached down and, grinning, unrolled it onto Fraser's cock. He felt Fraser's moan as he smoothed the latex in place, felt the cock grow hard, harder. He smoothed Fraser's chest, running thumbs across his nipples, watching the reaction on Fraser's face. Intense, desperate. 

"Ben." he cooed. Impressed. Unbelievably touched. This man could have practically anybody. 

"Uh, Mark, I ..." 

"You can't do it wrong, OK?" 

"Understood." 

Mark opened the plastic bottle and squirted lube into the palm of his hand, and felt Fraser's whole body tense as he applied it, while at the same time spreading his legs and then lifting them till his knees were almost touching his chest. "Careful of the knee, eh." 

A nod from a desperate Fraser, as he took hold of his cock, and pushed it against Mark's opening. 

A chuckle, "Easy, Ben!" 

Mark reached down and took hold of the base of Fraser's cock and, relaxing himself, guided it in. "Slow at first, OK? It takes me a minute to get used to it." 

Fraser looked down at him, understanding suddenly. He swallowed hard. He reached down and caressed his chest. Then leaned down and kissed him, lightly, playfully ... gratefully. "You don't usually ... do... *this*, do you?" 

Mark caressed the back of Fraser's neck, feeling the tension there. "Almost never." Mark tried to hide that with a winning smile, but he couldn't. And Fraser understood. This was as sincere an apology as the man could give. 

Mark reached up and ran his hands over Fraser's shoulders, firm, naturally masculine, not gym-built. Honest. Like the man. And suddenly Mark felt completely inadequate, unworthy. He stared up at Fraser eyes wide-opened, scared that Fraser could see that in him, cause if anyone could see it, it would be this guy. He ran his hands down Fraser's torso, amazed at what that body had become in the intervening years. 

* * *

And all the feelings of those way too few evenings in the dark barn came rushing back to Mark... the innocence, the longing, the begging, the yearning to touch and be touched and whatever he wants, and Mark remembered every thought that went through his head that evening, as he looked into Ben's eyes and couldn't say a word: 

"I need it so bad, and please touch me Ben, Oh God, Ben please, hold it again, and no I don't care what you do, and what are you doing, Ben? 

"Oh my God, I thought, No you can't be doing that. And the back of your head as I watched you, wide-eyed and unbelieving, as it bobbed up and down and that felt so fucking amazing and, please..." 

Mark looked up at Fraser and opened his eyes, and this wasn't a flashback, and it was Ben again, and he still can't say a single word to him, but knows what he would say if he could. 

'Please, Ben, please inside me, please and my hands take hold of your ass and feel the glutes tense as I pull you in and all I want to do is feel it, feel you, and feel him feel, and please Ben, do it, and get it inside me all the way, and all I can feel is the need to feel you, overwhelming even the feel of the hot flesh against me and I am afraid to open my eyes but I open my eyes and you are staring at me, and I see the need, the desire, is that really what that many years of pent-up desire looks like? Because holy fucking shit I've never seen that and shit I wish it had been that long for me too, cause I know I'm never gonna feel what that feels like, and yeah you're not the biggest I've had or the hardest or the roughest or the best technique or the most eager or any of that, just the first one who felt right. 

'And I look up into your face and sees your eyes staring at me, watching every reaction, and I've never seen anyone so into the other guy, so into me. And holy shit, my whole body shivers under that gaze, and I meet your gaze and it's not a challenge and it's not a game for you and it's just intensity, and I search for the words and the words don't come, and I manage to smile just enough to let you know that yeah, that's it and keep going and don't stop, and my neck arches back of it's own accord as you drives in again and your eyes are burning me, watching me, memorizing every detail of what you're seeing and darting back to my eyes to see how I'm doing with this, and all I can do is stare at your eyes and follow them as you looks, and Ben ... I want to say your name but you drive in again and my breath is taken away and I can't speak. 

'And please Ben please do it to me, and don't stop, and make me feel it and holy shit! hit me there again, and YES! please, and yeah, raising my hips to make it easier for you to hit it there again and yes hold me there and trap me and make me make you hit me there and dear sweet jesus and I gotta hold on to something and I gotta hold on to you and your shoulders feel hard and tensed and hard-working and I don't give a shit about anything else in the universe and all I want is to feel you feel your skin next to mine, give you anything, give me anything just so long as you don't stop, and sweet jesus break me open and fill me up, and do whatever the fuck you want, and I don't care anymore, and I gotta touch myself, because my cock is begging and pleading and screaming and it is as hard as it has ever been without anybody's mouth being on it, and how did you do that, cause it can't be that you know how, cause how can anybody *know* how to do that, and please, Ben, please Ben, please Ben...' 

* * *

And Fraser looked down and watched transfixed as every muscle in Mark's body tensed and the stream of hot white fluid arced through the air and splattered across that broad tensed chest and Mark's ass tightened involuntarily around his cock and Fraser let go, just let go and it was like nothing he had ever dreamed of, even those nights far away from the rest of the universe, campfire going, Dief at his side, one hand moving under blanket, remembering every square centimeter of that rookie card, and wondering if that was some kind of uniquely Canadian perversion to have one's fantasy life centered on hockey cards... and Fraser watched Mark's face and yes. 

And Fraser's whole body just collapsed, and Mark caught him, held him long enough to straighten out his legs, and feel Fraser slip out of him, and then let him down onto him, on top of him, feeling two hard chests sliding against each other's sweat- and come- drenched skin, and it felt warm and wet and good and right. 

And Fraser's head nestled in the crook of Mark's neck, and before he could beg Mark to hold him, Mark's arms enveloped him, and hugged him tightly. And for the first time since he was a teenager in a dark barn next to a frozen pond, Fraser was completely relaxed, content. 

* * *

And in the morning, sitting next to each other on the edge of the bed. Almost touching, but not quite. A tension in the air. Mark tried to lighten the mood a bit. "I gotta hope you needed that, Ben." 

Fraser cleared his throat. Important announcement voice. "Mark. You know that I .." 

"Don't say it Ben. Please, don't say it." Mark looked down at the ground. "I know you do. Or the idea of it, anyway. But, I'm not that kid playing hockey on a frozen pond back in the Territories. I'm a disgraced former NHL forward, banned for life. No future in the game. Not much future at all. I'm not a guy you could ever really respect. I know that. And you need that." 

Mark looked Fraser straight in the eye, "And I'm pretty much always gonna be ready for the next guy who comes along." 

Mark reached over, his hand cradling the back of Fraser's neck. A friendly squeeze. "Ben, I could stay with you, for a while anyway. Till you come home to find me with some guy I just met on the stoop, or some junior player who's into a little hero worship, or some construction worker who just catches my eye. Because I *need* that." 

Fraser couldn't meet his eyes. Mark continued, "I know you, Ben. I know that look in your eyes. You need a guy who is gonna be there just for you. And that ain't me." 

Fraser's voice almost cracked. "It could be." 

A smile. That smile. A slow shake of the head. "No, Ben. It can't. I know me. Don't get me wrong. I'll get together with you any time you want. Any time." 

Fraser nodded, but didn't look up. "Understood." 

"And you're never gonna take me up on that, are you?" 

A hesitation. "No, Mark." Fraser looked up and was surprised to see real disappointment on Mark's face. 

Mark nodded. "Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry?" 

Fraser searched his eyes and nodded. 

* * *

Mark stood there just outside the door, hockey bag slung over his shoulder. 

"It was good to see you, Ben." 

"And you, Mark." 

"You gonna stay in the States?" 

Fraser nods. "For a while. You going back to the Territories?" 

A slow shake of the head. A wistful smile. "Nope. Alberta. My uncle's got a farm outside of Red Deer. His only kid moved to Vancouver, he sort of told me that they can always use some help there. And my aunt makes killer pierogis. Real Canadian-style Ukrainian pierogis, not like the Polish ones you get here in Chicago." 

Fraser grinned. "Is there a pond?" 

"Right behind the barn. Frozen solid by Christmas every year." 

"And a tractor?" 

"Gotta light the pond somehow." 

Fraser put out his hand. Mark took it. The handshake was firm, warm, and longer than either of them expected, as they looked into each others' eyes. 

"Any chance...?" 

Fraser shook his head. Mark hung his head and nodded. He looked back up, head cocked. "Don't stay down here too long, eh. It's no place for a Canuck. It does bad things to you." 

A nod. "I miss it. I miss home." 

Mark put a hand behind Fraser's neck and gave it a light squeeze. "Find somebody, Ben. Find somebody who's gonna make you happy. Because you're gonna make whoever it is amazingly happy." 

Mark ducked his head. "I wish I was that guy. I really do. I know I'd just break your heart, Ben." 

A silence. 

"You already did, Mark." 

Mark swallowed hard, and made a fist and stuck Ben lightly on the chest. "I know. I ..." His voice trailed off. 

"Understood." 

"He's out there for you, Ben. Keep your eyes open for him. And Ben?" 

"Yes, Mark." 

"Don't fall for a Yank. They can be arrogant S.O.B.s." Mark flashed him that grin. 

"I'll remember that, Mark." 

"Hey! When ya do find him, I wanna meet him. Bring him to Red Deer and we'll all play a little pick-up on my uncle's pond. You do know how to get to Red Deer, don't you?" 

"You cross the border and turn left." 

Mark grinned and nodded and turned, and headed down the hall. At the end of the hall, he stopped short, and turned around. Fraser was still standing there, with that wolf by his side, both of them still watching him with the same intense stare. 

"Ben?" 

"Yes, Mark?" 

"Thank you. Thank you kindly." 

<end>


End file.
